


you weren't mine to lose

by harsassypotters



Series: Merlin fics! [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Despite what the title may imply, Dragonlord Merlin (Merlin), Episode: s04e06 A Servant of Two Masters, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Major Character Injury, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Sickfic, Whump, and the answer is yes, blunt force trauma, was this just an excuse for the author to write 4k words of whump and h/c?, you may be asking yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28796928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harsassypotters/pseuds/harsassypotters
Summary: Aithusa can sense her egg-father as a steady presence in the back of her mind, even when he's not with her. His dreams and thoughts blur together with hers, until she wakes from nightmares of a pyre burning and feels his pain mingle with hers.It’s how she knows to go to him when he’s lost, stumbling through the forest and close to death from a mace wound to his chest.
Relationships: Aithusa & Merlin (Merlin)
Series: Merlin fics! [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053980
Comments: 59
Kudos: 336





	you weren't mine to lose

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this and then proceeded to lose all motivation to edit it, so it was just. Sitting there. Burning a hole in my Google Docs. 
> 
> Please heed the warnings in the tags.

Aithusa’s connection to her egg-father is composed of fragments of dreams and thoughts: of waking up from nightmares of fire eating away at a wooden pyre with her blood hissing in terror, even though it’s the last thing she should be afraid of, and of looking into the water and thinking, inexplicably, _Arthur had better stop acting like such a prat or I’ll hex him to only speak in riddles_. Through everything--from her first flight to first successful hunt--he is a constant presence in the back of her mind, giving her strength and fighting off the long stretches of loneliness that accompany her in the forest.

“A bond,” Kilgharrah tells her--in the ancient language of dragons, a language that comes to her as easily as breathing--when she asks about it. “Bonds between dragons and dragonlords are strong things, the bond between dragon and egg-father even more so. Cherish it.” 

It’s how she knows to go to him when he’s lost, stumbling through the forest and close to death from a mace wound to his chest.

  
  
  


Pain sings through her body first, coming from somewhere deep inside. Instinctively, she knows it is not because she wandered into the thrambles of a rose bush again but because somehow, somewhere, there is something severely wrong with her egg-father. 

If she concentrates, she can sense the direction he lies in, like a magical cord is connecting them. She flies fast and hard, veering around trunks and crashing through branches. Though her wings aren’t used to supporting her for such a long flight, she forces them to, her heart swelling with a need to get to her egg-father as soon as possible.

The first thing she notices about him is how _lost_ he looks. In the forest, everything has a job and a purpose, from the falcons she flies with to the ants scuttling on the ground. But he’s stumbling from tree to tree, hand clutched to his chest, clearly exhausted but unwilling to sit down and rest. He’s trying to go somewhere he’s not sure exists.

The second thing she notices is his face, contorted in agony. It’s whiter than the clouds in the sky, than the first snowfall in winter. 

She chitters frantically as she flies out to meet him, pushing the boundaries of her mind and trying to let him know he’s not alone.

Her egg-father’s eyes widen when he sees her, and the corners of his lips pull up in an echo of a smile. “Aithusa,” he rasps, his eyes a blend of pain and affection.

It’s the last thing she notices about them before they roll to the back of his head.

He collapses, the smile still on his lips.

Healing him is both the hardest and most wonderful thing she has ever done in her life.

He’s landed on his back, so she has a full view of his skin through the rips in his shirt: dark purple like the overripe grapes she once feasted on before puking. He’s stiller than the bears in the dead of winter, and she would think he was dead if not for the fact that the connection between them is still there--weak and thready, a shadow of what it once was, but _there_.

She nuzzles as close to him as she dares, gently curling her head on the inside of his arm. They are so close Aithusa thinks she can feel the life and magic pounding in his flesh and blood, struggling to hold on, and she listens to it, letting the things she loves most about him--his smile, his gentle hand as he feeds her sweetmeats, his bright eyes--drift to the top of her mind. They feel like two sides of the same coin, of the balance in a tipping world, of the eye of the storm. 

When fire spills from her jaws, it is the brightest she has ever breathed. 

Night has fallen by the time he wakes up, moonlight making his skin look gaunt. He’s not healed completely--still weak enough that he’ll have trouble walking, eating, taking care of himself--but he will survive.

He breathes in testingly, seeming thrilled when there’s only a small rattle and the pain is small. 

“Thank you, Aithusa,” he whispers, his eyes softening as his hand comes up to stroke her scales. It’s her favorite part of each time he sneaks out of his home to come visit her in the forest. He fingers and traces each scale almost reverently, letting the warmth of his skin seep into her chill, and it makes up for all the times Kilgharrah has left her for days on end or the bear cubs prefer running away to playing.

  
  


He begins talking when the dark sky begins to fade into the golden of crisp apples. It’s about small things, at first: his friend Gwen, and being at the tavern with Gwaine, and his annoyance at Gaius for making him clean the leech tank. But before long, like the change in the air before a storm, the topic shifts.

“His name is Agravaine,” he tells her, his voice raspy, “and he’s horrid. He keeps twisting Arthur, talking about how much he loves his mother, but never saying how much he loves _Arthur_ , and Arthur laps it up anyway.” 

Bitterness twists its way into his voice, but he continues.

“Arthur’s approval is the only thing giving him any sort of power, and he knows it. I can feel him watching me, when he thinks I don’t know, or maybe he _knows_ I know but wants me to be afraid. I can see him finger his knife, and lick his lips. I think he’s the one who gave away our route to...to…” He trails off, then, a shadow passing over his face.

To Aithusa, death is nothing but the feeling of rabbit meat in her jaws and the crunch of brown leaves under her paws. It has never been a bad thing, and yet at that moment, she swears to herself she will tear Agravaine apart. 

She goes hunting, and brings back pheasant. Merlin can sit up now, even if it causes his face to twist in pain when he does so, and he roasts the bird over the fire she sets.

Once it's done, they make a game out of it, Merlin tossing pieces and chunks of it into the air and Aithusa flying up to snap them in her jaws. It's so familiar to what they did whenever he visited her before that she can pretend that nothing has changed, that there isn't the strange, foreign weight of fear over her heart that she recognizes from his dreams.

Merlin laughs delightedly, momentarily forgetting the pain, when she completes a particularly complicated twirl in midair that she has been practicing for weeks just for him. 

His love isn't the same as Kilgharrah's--the old dragon makes sure she knows how to hunt and how to aim her fire properly, but he is impatient to leave, to fly off to do mysterious work. Merlin is different--he too needs to leave before long, but she knows he cherishes every single moment he stays with her, and he goes out of his way to touch her, to bring her treats. 

It reminds her why she had begun to measure the time not by the rising and falling of the sun, but by the number of times he visited her.

It takes another day for Merlin to tell her what happened.

"We were traveling in the Valley of Fallen Kings," he mumbles, his eyes blank as water and staring into nothing. "A mercenary attack--which shouldn't have been _possible_ , since our route was secret, but Arthur must have told Agravaine and Agravaine must have told Morgana." His voice hitches at the name, and Aithusa can feel sorrow and love pull its way through the bond. "A mace hit me across the chest--" he lightly fingers the mess of purple on his chest "--and Arthur and I were separated from the rest. 

"And then--and then the mercenaries caught up to us again, and Arthur left me to go fight them. But he had no chance--there were so _many_ of them, and there was no place to retreat--and so I...caused a rockfall." His face twists. "It separated Arthur from the mercenaries, but not me, and they took me. They must have thought I was unconscious--I really nearly _was_ \--and they talked about bringing me to Morgana. But then one of them noticed I was still awake, and I had to fight my way out of magic...and you know what happens next."

She does. She doesn't think she'll ever forget it, the memories of him pale and stumbling stuck in her head like honey on her paws. Aithusa chirps sadly, gently nudging his arm with her head.

"And Aithusa--Aithusa, he _knows_. About the magic. He saw me cause the rockfall. He saw my eyes turn gold." 

Tears are making their way down his cheeks, and Aithusa curls up next to him, trying to offer comfort the best she can. She knows that the same magic that runs through her veins and rushes to the hollow of her throat is something to be feared--it is the reason she is confined to the forest, the reason her egg-father can only meet her in the dead of the night. It is the reason he dreams of people crowded around a pyre, chanting, over and over, " _Sorcery_."

She nips gently at his fingers, and they drift off to sleep, the tears from his face trailing down his face and onto her scales.

That night, Aithusa dreams of fire again, except this time it's _everywhere_ : spreading from the turrets of the stone castle to the walls to the ground, licking and devouring everything in its path. The sheer _wrongness_ of it all startles Aithusa--fire is not supposed to be used like this, to burn and destroy.

In the middle of it all stands a blonde man, dressed in what looks like gray scales, sword in hand. "Are you happy now, Merlin?" he spits out. "Having ruined everything?"

"I've done nothing but save you!" another man yells--her egg-father, standing defiantly across from the first man, fists clenched, blood making its way down his temples and onto his cheek. 

The mix of bitterness and anger and fear and hatred--strong like the stones of the mountains, collapsing and burying anyone who comes too close--coming from her egg-father is so strong that it jolts her awake, her wings flapping frantically and disturbing the leafy undergrowth she is lying on.

She seeks out her egg-father instinctively, but he's still sleeping, tossing and turning. Even in the pale light of the moon she can see that his face is as flushed as the red berries in summer, and when she nuzzles up to his face, the heat from his skin is almost as hot as fire.

The bond between them is weaker than ever, little more than the strands of a cobweb.

She tries to heal him with her fire again, but it's useless: his face remains crisp, his mind trapped in a never-ending dream. Somehow, she knows this isn't from a physical wound, but from the fact that he is very, very afraid, and very, very angry.

To occupy her mind, she thinks of Arthur. He's mentioned him before, but rarely--only when the only sound in the night is the chattering of crickets and the cries of hawks, the perfect time for letting secrets fall across the damp grass like acorns. Aithusa doesn't think he likes to think about him very much.

"I think he's my friend," he's told her, once, "but he never believes a thing I say, always takes out his anger on me. I wonder, sometimes, what the point of helping him is anymore, if he's just going to spit in my face. The prophecy seems so far away, like he'll never grow into the Once and Future King, that it's all just a grand, grand joke."

Kilgharrah's talked in great length about the prophecy, about Emrys and the Once and Future King and secrecy. It makes Kilgharrah happy and Merlin sad, and Aithusa doesn't know what to feel about it.

"He says that he trusts me more than anyone," he told her another time. "And I feel guilty, knowing that I'm keeping the biggest part of myself in a locked box. Which is stupid, isn't it? I don't owe him anything. I've been hunted, he hasn't. I shouldn't owe him anything."

She wonders if Arthur was the one her egg-father was seeing in his dream. She has no doubt he loves him, but there's something else there: a dark tangle of distrust and paranoia and fear. Their relationship seems so complicated, so much more so than what she's used to, of predators and prey. Of ones who eat and ones who get eaten. 

She curls up tighter and places a protective paw on his arm.

Aithusa wakes to a thrashing in the undergrowth.

For a heart-soaring moment, she thinks it belongs to her egg-father, but he's still sleeping, eyelids twitching and mouth slightly parted. Which means it's coming from someone else.

It's not another animal--no, she recognizes the heavy footsteps, the two limbs, as belonging to one of the people that come through the forest often. _Patrols_ and _knights_ , Kilgharrah calls them, and though they have the sign of a dragon on their clothes, she is not to go near them.

This is no time for fear, though. She stalks forward, raising her hackles and readying her wings, prepared to attack.

From behind a tree stumbles out a man with hair the color of the sun and wearing the strange gray scales--the man from her egg-father's dream. There are dark smudges under his eyes the same color as her egg-father's injury, and in his eyes is a wildness she cannot help but associate with a rushing river. His gaze falls on her egg-father.

" _Merlin_!" the man gasps, looking relieved. Human facial expressions still confuse Aithusa, sometimes, but the hours she has spent with her egg-father has helped. 

Aithusa hisses. Is he going to kill them? That's what she's been told that knights do to magic, to her and her egg-father.

The man tenses, hand grasping the hilt of his sword. He clearly hadn't noticed her before, but now that he does, he's wary, backing away from her as if she is something to be feared. "Get. _Away._ From. Him," he says through gritted teeth.

Aithusa doesn't move. 

The man draws his sword out slowly, eyes boring into her for any sign of movement. She stays still. There is a possibility he might help them after all, and she won’t harm him unless she is absolutely sure otherwise. 

"Get away from him," the man says slowly, drawing out every word, "or I will kill you."

She doesn't think that's possible. Kilgharrah told her that her scales could resist any manmade weapon, and he has never lied to her. She does not move. 

Merlin snuffles behind her, his eyes slowly drifting open. He blinks for a bit, trying to get his bearings, and then tenses. "Arthur," he croaks.

So this is Arthur. Her egg-father's friend. He should help them, and she nearly retreats, but then she remembers his hatred in her egg-father's dream, the _lostness_ Merlin felt when he spoke about him. 

"Don't move, Merlin," Arthur says slowly. "There is a dragon in front of you. I am going to try to kill it. Don't move."

"What?" Every word falling from his lips sounds like it causes him pain. The bond between them shakes. "No--no, Arthur, don't kill her. She's good. She's okay."

Arthur's eyes rove over Merlin, taking in the flush of his cheeks, the sweat making its way down his temples. "You're delirious, Merlin," he says finally, eyes heavy. "You don't know what you're saying. Don't move."

" _No_ , Arthur." His voice is weak, thready, unconvincing. Fear makes its way down Aithusa's spine like cold, cold water. She's not used to being hunted, not in the forest, where she is predator and not prey. She doesn't like it very much.

"Don't move, Merlin," Arthur repeats, his eyes glued to Aithusa, who flaps her wings. Maybe if she makes herself seem bigger than she is, like she's seen the butterflies and birds do, he will leave them alone.

Arthur comes forward, twisting the sword in his hand, and Aithusa decides, feeling a vine snake around her heart, that she must risk it and use her fire. He comes closer, and fire rushes to the hollow of her throat, and she nearly lets it go before Arthur is thrown back by an invisible force, landing with his back against a tree.

Aithusa doesn't need to turn around to sense the gold in Merlin's eyes.

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur growls, sounding out of breath, "I am _trying to help you_."

"No, Arthur," Merlin mumbles, words almost too quiet to hear, his eyes fluttering closed. "No. She--she healed me." He gestures vaguely towards his chest.

It's lighter purple now, some of the skin going back to it's normal snow white. She knows, though, that without the magic of her fire sowing veins back together and cleaning the blood spilling inside of his body, it would be much, much worse.

Arthur's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and his hand clenches. "What? Why?"

But Merlin's already slipped back into sleep, his head lolling on his shoulder. The bond between them shudders, nearly slaps, and a concerned squawk escapes Aithusa's mouth before she can stop it.

Arthur is looking at her the way she sometimes looks at the pinecones, wondering how the spurs of the shell can go round and round and round without stopping. "You helped him...Can he control you, then? Is it a part of his magic? A spell? Or..." His face shifts, clicks, settles, the way Merlin's does when he's figured something out. "He's a Dragonlord, isn't he? That's how he killed the Great Dragon. Why he was so upset about Balinor."

Merlin has told her about Balinor. About reuniting with his blood father for the rise and fall of a sun only to lose him again. She lets out a low, mournful sound.

Arthur gives her an appraising look. He's still afraid--she can see the look of cornered prey in his eyes. But he sheaths his sword as he carefully walks towards Merlin, and when he looks down at him, his eyes are gentle. Kilgharrah has never looked at her like that, but Merlin has. "I guess we'll just have to take care of him together, won't we?"

Aithusa chirps her agreement. 

  
  
  


Arthur’s brought supplies--left behind on a huffing horse when the foliage had grown too dense--and he wraps Merlin in blanket after blanket, the wool rough and scratchy to Aithusa’s snout when she nudges him gently.

Arthur is still afraid of her, she can tell--his shoulders are tensed in the same way hers are during a hunt, preparing to chase or be chased; he flinches when he looks at her, as if expecting his cheek to be lit on fire any second; and when she places a protective paw on her egg-father’s arm, trying to push as much strength through the bond as she can, he gives an aborted yell, instinctively reaching for his sword before realizing himself and awkwardly lowering his hand.

Aithusa doesn’t know what to make of him, either.

Arthur gathers various herbs and roots, muttering something about “Gaius said,” and boiling them into a tincture with water from his waterskin and the fire that she sets. After he’s done, he props Merlin up against him and pinches his nose, tipping the broth into his mouth when it opens instinctively. They work through the skin in bits and sips, Arthur gently massaging Merlin’s throat to help him swallow.

Though Merlin doesn’t wake, he clearly relaxes, breaths turning even and delirious mumblings quieted.

Aithusa feels herself relax, too. She doesn’t think Arthur means to harm them, despite his clear alarm with dragons and _magic_ , and so she goes on another hunt, catching pheasant again.

When she returns, she drops the dead bird at Arthur’s feet, who watches her the same way other animals watch snakes, waiting for a strike that may or may not come.

“You caught this for us?” he asks, warily.

She jerks her head and chitters in a way that undeniably means, _What do you think_?

The corners of his mouth tug up in a smile. “Yes, I suppose that was obvious. Thank you.” He clears his throat, looking suddenly uncertain. “Can you understand me? Or am I just talking to myself like a madman?”

She nudges his hand with her head, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly begins to stroke her. It’s nothing like her egg-father’s touch, unfamiliar hands fumbling around rigid scales, but she’ll take it.

And that’s when Aithusa says her first human word-- “ _Yes_ ,” a high chitter growing up from deep in her throat.

The shocked look on his face, mouth parting to form a comical _O_ like she’s seen the bullfrogs do as he finds out _dragons can talk_ , makes it spectacularly worth it.

  
  
  


They cook the meat and eat it, Arthur boiling more broth to coax down Merlin’s throat. Night falls.

When Merlin begins shivering, Arthur wraps him up in his blood-red cloak, allowing Merlin to sleep leaning against him in order to absorb human warmth.

"You know, I actually don't mind that much about his magic," Arthur starts, suddenly. "I think I expected to, when I found out, when he caused that rockfall. But I was too worried about him, thinking he died, that I would never get a chance to talk to him again, to know what his last words were. To let him know how much I appreciated him, even if I never showed it. And even now, when I know he's safe, I can't find the energy, even if..." He trails off, expression shuttering.

Aithusa waits patiently, tail thumping on the ground methodically.

"You're a betrayal, technically," he tells her, "in the strictest definition of the word. To hatch you, he went behind my back, lied to me, didn't tell me what really happened with Julius Borden. And it hurts, that he must have been used to it, after hiding his magic for eight years.

"And it hurts even more that he couldn't trust me. And he betrayed so many magic-users just to help me, the son of the Tyrant King. And that I'll never know what it feels like to be him, to be afraid every single day of your life."

Aithusa lets out a low, sympathetic chitter. 

"So I guess," Arthur continues, slowly, like he's tasting every word on his lips, "that the only thing to do is wait until he wakes up, and explain everything to each other. And maybe we'll never be the same again, or maybe we'll be even better. I'll try to respect him more. I think he'll try to trust me. We'll see."

He goes to sleep quickly after that, eyelids fluttering closed and breath turning even. 

From her position curled up on the ground, Aithusa turns the bond over and over in her mind, half-expecting it to snap with too much handling but unable to stop. But, if anything, it only gets stronger, pulsing with new energy.

She mulls over what he said. She wonders if Merlin and Arthur’s relationship will toughen like snake hide, or crumble to motes of dust and acorn shells. If Merlin will tell him of Agravaine, and if Arthur will believe him.

When she finally drifts off to sleep, she does not dream of fires or crumbling castles.

  
  
  


The next morning, Arthur checks Merlin’s temperature and, though he is not yet awake, deems him well enough to travel. Aithusa, testing their bond and finding it solid, cannot help but agree, though it does sadden her, to find herself lonely again.

As if sensing this, Arthur stands in front of her awkwardly. “I can’t bring you to Camelot with us,” he tells her, fingering a ring on his finger. A nervous tick, she thinks. “People are still recuperating from the last dragon attack. It’s too early. They will panic.”

It’s nothing new. She chitters her understanding.

If anything, Arthur proceeds to look even more awkward. “But...later, when perhaps the magic ban is repealed--and I think I will do it, after I study magic a bit--if you...if you want to come live with Merlin, you can do that. I suppose. If you want to.

“And I’m sure Merlin will come visit you, in the meantime. I probably will too. He should have more time now, now that I….know.” A shadow falls over his face for a second.

Her heart lifts, swells, nearly bursts, and she lets out a delighted chitter. She would like nothing more than to leap on top of him in the way that makes Merlin laugh with joy, but she doesn’t think it would go over very well with Arthur. So she settles for nudging his hand, smiling a toothy grin.

He looks down at her, smiling.

  
  
  


Arthur carries Merlin to his horse--one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees--and settles him in front of him, leaning against Arthur’s chest. 

Aithusa watches as they depart, horse hooves stamping the undergrowth, a strange feeling of hope in her chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please, I am but a lowly author in desperate need of validation. Leave a comment and stroke and ego.


End file.
